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Yellow Boots Feb 8
I spend so much time just googling
what time it is in the city I'm in
where do I stand
what's the hidden value
of the keys being pressed
making time for
important decisions, putting out fires,
kindness, emotional intelligence
making time for
pressing keys
making time for
the hardest thing
reconciling brain halves,
showering sometimes,
moving on
a whole lot of moving on
silence is gold, intelligence shines
let the first drive at dawn be defined
by taking underdogs by the hand
Yellow Boots Feb 8
To humble seaweed the task
of connecting universes we carry
on our shoulders.

Demasiadas mãos ao peito
Levaram oferendas pesadas
Da tua viagem que baralhou as cartas
Nesse desgasto chamado amizade.

Cães, montes e estrelas encima
Já presenciaram ao teu encanto,
Meu lastimável desentendimento
Que menos te calavas, mais me estremecia.

A custa da confiança rechazada
O que nunca foi vai ser entregue
Às árvores, aos cães, às estrelas encima
Medicina afague minha frágil teimosia.

Não nos deixamos faltar nada
Menos que todo a palavra loucura
Nesse amor que derrumbamos a pedaços
Que nos destroçou, inconscientes da sua vulnerabilidade.

Silêncio que esconde beijos, disse Neruda,
Quebrado por tener um oceano como alivio
Um suplício aceite já sem raiva
Tu história para contar com mis palavras.
Yellow Boots Feb 8
the necessity of a bath
clear at certain latitudes
modest ritual, claustrophobic chore
has been lifted where all is different
has been lost weren't it for the birds
is melancholy spoils, welcome but not home

a chiasma of feral philodendron,
colibrì & golden beetles
shields the view of the bather by the moonlight
the comfort and the intensity bring back
the necessity to have taken in the past
more baths at that specific latitude
Yellow Boots Feb 8
They have taken the door, the bed and the light-bulbs
Free-thinkers without a cause, the rusty pipes, the pile of coins
Up and down the stairs, I'm counting what's left.
You're right at the core of everything that burst; we still have
The present tense

Daydreaming, True love waits.
In a cup, held with both hands,
in the forest, wooden liquid
confused about its purpose in your guidance.
We're out of tea and a real place to sit
There's blood in the sink, green
paint everywhere, it's in the air
It's maddening, don't breathe.

There's time in the organs of a house
the stairs, the blame,
the fear of settling down.
The life-support of a city
seeping into a room too empty
to be so full of us and of stains to clean.
They've taken away the ghost;
unburdened, we drink.

Terrible births have been poured;
kind hands take away the empty bowl.
Yellow Boots Sep 2018
the surface of madness
the treasures below
ropes, ramshackle air pockets
afloat, in the autumn sun
gifts and curses are dispensed
by the change of a tide
with mourning grown heavy,
unsteadied the course
(one more farewell to bid)
coexistence of crime
punishment
crime
punishment
punishment
fool oneself twice
for breathing underwater
is no matter for sane souls
.
Yellow Boots Apr 2018
I left my bed that smells of you to the kindness of a stranger; your memory will be taken care of by someone who will never have to meet you, someone who is not running away.

Every place a story, the bitter sweetness of the unknown running in spirals on the palm of my hand. The whole planet, a prison of freedom, heart open to mysterious tongues, consciousness spread to embrace the winds. Borrow my eyes, bedbugs and aching heels, if you please. Hi, I'm not home, don't leave a message.
Yellow Boots Apr 2018
The room is empty and white. The bed, a messed-up mattress on the floor. A few white hair, a smile crooked under that weight life spends 20 years stacking and you try to tuck away into some hidden pocket. Books, books everywhere; no toilet paper. I imagine the terrace behind the huge windows and feel slightly sick.

The room is empty and dusty. In the darkness, I can feel your dangerous eyes and thick lips everywhere. They read french poetry in this same bed before the candle burnt out and are now devouring my skin; yours, still untouched by manhood, melts away from my fingertips. I love la vie boheme.
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